


Wondergrass

by halfthewords (Sierra)



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-18
Updated: 2015-01-18
Packaged: 2018-03-08 01:17:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3190403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sierra/pseuds/halfthewords
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Boromir can hide some things from his king, but not all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wondergrass

**Author's Note:**

> First time writing LOTR fic, which was a gift for rubyelf on LJ for the sons_of_gondor Halloween exchange in 2013. Hints at an Aragorn/Boromir/Arwen threesome.

For the third time, Boromir’s strike missed. Aragorn dodged to the side as Boromir’s sword came down heavily but harmlessly where he had been standing. He could see there was a marked slowness in Boromir’s movements; the former blows had been quicker and bolder. The Man’s shoulders were heaving as he spun to follow Aragorn’s steps, which were turning full circle around him. Too fast, Aragorn thought, because Boromir looked unbalanced on his feet for a few seconds before he steadied himself. 

Aragorn observed the mixture of frustration and resolve on the face of his Steward: his brows drawn together, mouth turned downwards in a frown that would have warded off even Merry and Pippin. Sweat covered his face and neck, staining the collar of his tunic. Aragorn could see his hands, too, were damp with it, for it looked as if Boromir’s sword would slip from his grasp at any moment. Aragorn stopped moving, having left some distance between them – enough that he could get a better look at Boromir, but not too much that it would make it seem obvious. To Boromir, it looked as if Aragorn was only keeping out of reach of his sword. Then again, Boromir was a warrior born and bred, and he could likely tell when he was being scrutinised. 

Aragorn raised his eyes, meeting Boromir’s. Neither moved for a few moments, the chill of the morning air settling on their skin. 

Then Aragorn slid his sword back into its sheath at his hip. Andúril he kept only for battle or ceremonial use; Boromir did the same. Their practice swords were of a lighter make, and blunt, lacking the intricacies of their personal swords. Little damage could be done with them without true force behind a swing, and what Aragorn had seen of Boromir this morn confirmed that he was not using his full strength. The only question that remained was why. Aragorn held out a hand. 

“Come, Boromir,” he said, keeping his voice soft. There was none else in the courtyard beneath the Steward’s quarters, but Aragorn saw little need to be unnecessarily loud. “’Tis enough for today.”

With a snort, Boromir eyed him. “We have not been outside an hour yet, my Lord. Have you other business?” 

Few dared to speak to the King of Gondor so, but Aragorn only hid a smile, ducking his head briefly. Faramir would have not been surprised to hear Boromir say something with such impertinence, but he would have apologised for it profusely. Boromir, on the other hand, lacked the diplomatic nature of his brother. He had not become known as Boromir the Bold for no reason, after all. 

“Nay,” Aragorn replied. “Imrahil and Faramir are receiving the emissaries from Harad, and I will meet them on the morrow. No doubt you would have known if you had been listening during the Council meeting yesterday. But for now you should rest, Boromir.”

True to Aragorn’s expectations, Boromir’s nostrils flared, and a scowl formed on his face. Yet Aragorn was not deterred in the slightest, and he drew nearer, until Boromir raised the sword again. The tip of it pressed into Aragorn’s chest. 

“I am well,” Boromir said testily. “There is no need.”

Aragorn saw no threat in Boromir’s eyes, and he could not remember what it looked like on the face of his Steward. It had been near a decade since Boromir had regarded him with anything other than respect and occasionally surprise, but Aragorn had not forgotten the sting of Boromir’s fury when first he felt it on the banks of the Anduin. Boromir’s pleas had not moved him, and he had refused to believe in the strength of the people he would one day rule. For much of his life, Aragorn had thought his own race weak, those with the blood of Isildur especially so, but there was one who, through leading by example, had taught him otherwise. 

Now Aragorn looked at Boromir, and closed his eyes to rid himself of his thoughts. Blindly, he reached out again, extending his fingers and wrapping them around one of Boromir’s clammy hands. Going by touch, he ran the tips of his fingers over Boromir’s bare forearms. The vambraces Boromir once owned were now Aragorn’s, a symbol of the vow made by an uncrowned king to a desperate Man, the Captain of a country under threat of ruin. 

He heard Boromir’s intake of breath, prompting him to move his hand to Boromir’s chest. He sought Boromir’s thudding heartbeat, feeling it beneath his fingers. Then the pressure from the point of Boromir’s sword disappeared and he heard it thud to the ground altogether, the sound dull against the grass. 

Aragorn opened his eyes again, catching Boromir unaware, for his mask had dropped, and he looked uncertain. A look that Aragorn knew Boromir did not allow many to see, and one he had witnessed more than once. A warm feeling bloomed in his chest as one of Boromir’s hands closed on his over Boromir’s heart. 

“You are not well,” Aragorn murmured, allowing a smile to take his features now Boromir could not pretend any longer. “A fever has taken you.” 

His other hand went to Boromir’s forehead and Aragorn knew he had been right: it was hot underneath his own skin. He was surprised that Boromir was not bedridden by now. But then, Aragorn thought, Boromir was more stalwart than any ox, and he knew as well any that their day-to-day work was endless. To keep a kingdom running took the efforts of the entire Council and Boromir was at the head of it as the Steward of Gondor. There were none who worked harder than Boromir, and none, least of all him, could afford time away from their duties. 

“My niece,” Boromir grumbled, leaning into Aragorn’s hand as it trailed down over his face to cup his jaw. “She took ill the day after I visited her last. Lady Éowyn did warn me, but…”

“You did not listen?” Aragorn finished, chuckling. He stroked over the stubble of Boromir’s cheek, finding he did not mind if he got too close. Taking the risk of getting sick was foolish, but it was worth being near Boromir. Though, if he gave voice to that thought, he knew both Arwen and Boromir would protest. “Tell me something I do not know. Or instead, Boromir, prove me wrong.” 

Boromir looked away for a moment, his mouth set in a frown; a common occurrence when he was about to put his obstinacy on full display. 

“Will you rest?” Aragorn asked. “You will only take a turn for the worse if you neglect yourself now, Boromir.” 

Boromir’s illness showed in the sigh he gave, deep and long. “Aye, my Lord. But I have one request.” 

Aragorn gazed at him questioningly. 

“The King must tend to me.” A grin split Boromir’s face, causing Aragorn to grin back. “The Queen may help if she pleases.”


End file.
